Dreaming Sick
by TheAmethystRiddle
Summary: It had been a while since he'd had that dream. Time might not heal, but it certainly provided new perspectives. Sam/Callen. One-shot.


**I don't think anybody ships Sam/Callen, and I'm not sure why.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Seriously.**

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It started with a dream.

Whenever he told Sam that, the other man would laugh and throw a pillow in his face to shut him up.

"'I have a dream,' right? I don't really think that's the kind of dream Mr. King was talking about," he'd say, and he'd roll over and go to sleep- just like that, as if Callen wasn't there.

It had, though- one of the most vivid dreams he'd ever had. Vivid enough that he'd woken up and been taken aback to find himself in his own bed. Vivid enough that he'd seen something he'd never been looking for.

It had been a long time since he'd dreamed about that mission- for a while afterwards it had been every night. He was still unnerved by that, his first mission with Sam, the interminable silence crushing them both with its endless weight. Then the target sighted, a rush of adrenaline coursing through him as they ran, their movements disjointed and uncoordinated from unfamiliarity. Gunshots, bullets dragging through the air so slowly as to be visible- maybe it was not that the dream was so lifelike, but the events themselves so surreal. Dodge, dodge, and take the chance, trust Sam to cover him- a deadly mistake, as he would soon find out. Cuff the perp with an authoritative snarl, shift his weight to look for his partner- bang, in the back, a searing, tearing pain which could only mean point-blank powder burns on his bulletproof vest.

Dead, he thought, dead dead dead dead deaddeaddeaddeaddead. The word spiraled down through his skull into infinity as the ground rushed up to meet him. Any second would come the next shots and darkness.

But the gunshots that rang out were NCIS-issue, pumped frenziedly into the Israeli man that fell into view to the accompaniment of frantic footsteps falling to their knees.

Sam held him, held him as the EMTs wailed in to save him, held him so tightly and so desperately, telling Callen he was so, so sorry and to please hold on, please don't die. Please stay with me, G.

The four months it took him to rehabilitate after that had been neither the longest nor the most painful of his life, and so the sirens faded away into a broken, shaken sobbing that he recognized as his own. All that mattered were Sam's arms around him, rocking Callen gently as he shook with hysteria. All that mattered was Sam's voice, repeating the words I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, G. You're alright now and you know I'll never let that happen again. I'm sorry, G, I'm so sorry.

He woke from that dream to a pounding at the door and a matching pounding in his head. He stumbled to the door, aware only of a strange buzzing in his skull, and opened it to collapse into the arms of the first and last man he wanted to see.

They told him later that Sam found him with a fever of 102 and tears streaming down his face. When he collapsed Sam had done what anyone would have done: he put Callen to bed and called Hetty.

Callen's fever didn't peak until midnight that night, and Same was there every second, pressing a wet rag to his forehead, herding visitors through his cramped apartment, soothing back into a fitful sleep with a measured, calm voice. It wasn't until Callen woke screaming from that dream again that Sam lost his cool and gathered Callen in his arms, rocking him back and forth as Callen scrabbled blearily at his chest, gripping Sam's bicep frenetically and gasping for breath.

"It's okay, G, I got you. I got you, man, don't worry. It's okay, man, it's okay." Sam dragged him onto his lap as he spoke, holding Callen against his chest and still rocking blindly.

Nothing much had registered with Callen up until then. At first he thought it was another dream, but the throbbing pain at the back of his brain convinced him otherwise. He couldn't quite see through the haze of heat surrounding his temples, but he was acutely aware of Sam's shoulder pressed against his ear, of his own damp fingertips clenched in the fabric of Sam's shirt, of Sam's cheek against his forehead and Sam's voice in the air.

"You're gonna be okay, G. You're gonna be fine. No worries, G, I got your back. You remember our first mission, G? When you got shot 'cause of me? You remember I said I'd never let anything happen again? I meant it. I still mean it. You're gonna be okay, I promise, G." Sam touched Callen's forehead gently as he spoke, brushing away a bead of sweat and wiping it on his jeans. Suddenly Callen shuddered violently, feverish chills coursing through his body without warning. He curled more tightly into Sam, shivering and breathing raggedly.

Sam held him like that until he stilled, his breathing evening out and his heartbeat slowing. Callen was just on the edge of sleep when Sam leaned down, his body heat creating a comfortable cocoon, and pressed his lips gently to Callen's forehead.

"You'll be alright, G," Sam whispered quietly against his skin, to which Callen replied with a quiet keening, stretching ever so slightly upwards. Sam jerk back and remained frozen like that for a moment, but at Callen's motionless insistence he bent back over his partner and pressed their lips together, hesitantly at first and then more confidently as Callen responded well. They were stretched out on the bed, bodies pressed together, before Callen pushed Sam reluctantly away and rolled over.

"You'll get sick," he muttered, his voice painful and dull with fever. He shivered disconsolately without Sam's warmth, drawing his limbs closer.

Sam rolled over as well, wrapping himself around Callen with a chuckle. "I'm already sick, G," he said in Callen's ear. "Sick in love."

Callen smirked at that, nestling himself closer as sleep overtook him. When he woke briefly at one, neither of them had moved. With a sigh, he fell back asleep.

The worst of it had passed the next morning, so Sam went back to the office and Callen stayed at home and slept. No one seemed to notice Sam jump when Hetty told him he was lucky not to have caught anything. Sam returned to Callen's apartment that night with the assurance that he was no longer contagious but the disappointing verdict that physical exertion was unwise. What Hetty meant, of course, was that Callen probably ought to skip his daily run.

There was, eventually, the inevitable confrontation with Nate, who had "noticed a change in their relationship dynamic." Between the two of them they managed to avoid giving a straight answer, something they recounted gleefully later that night.

And then there was now.

They fell asleep curled up together, a scene strangely reminiscent of that first night by one another's side. As Callen settled deeper into the nook between Sam's arm and body, he sighed deeply and closed his eyes in satisfaction.

"Night, Sam," he said, just to hear the answer.

"Night, G," came the reply, said softly to the area of his temple just above his ear. Sam's voice rumbled comfortably around him, lulling him to sleep.

When they woke up in the morning, neither of them had moved.


End file.
